The Body in the Bouillon ff-3 Page 8

  The lights dimmed appropriately and waiters suitably liveried marched out bearing silver salvers of flaming plum pudding surrounded by holly wreaths. The pale-blue flames reflected in the mirrored doors that encircled the room, and the effect was lovely. An appreciative murmur echoed throughout until someone started clapping, and the applause spread. One pudding was placed on Dr. Hubbard's table and the others were lined up on the buffet. The last flame wavered and faded, and the lights went on again. The orchestra struck up "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and the crowd moved toward the figgy puddings for a taste.

  Everything was apparently fine.

  Faith was not a big fan of plum pudding, although she liked looking at it. Too rich and cloying. Only the English—and she was excepting those English like Elizabeth David in this case—could have thought to pair it with hard sauce, that dense mass of white sugar spiked with too little brandy.

  While Tom went to join the queue, Faith thought back over the evening and watched the scene in front of her. Muriel was dancing with her father, stretching her arms up high to reach. In earlier days she would have stood on his shoes. Maybe she still wanted to—Daddy's little girl?

  She had learned more about the Hubbard family, Faith realized, but nothing earthshaking. Sure, Muriel did not seem to be a fan of Charmaine's, but then what sensible person would be? Donald was apparently besotted with her, but maybe they had great sex. Who knew? Eddie Russell presented some possibilities, and he seemed to be very friendly with Charmaine. It was possible that Howard Perkins had stumbled onto this hanky-panky, but Howard was a New Yorker, and a little nooky in the linen closet or wherever was not going to cause him serious concern. It might be something with Eddie, though. That felt right.

  Tom came back with a wedge of pudding large enough for the whole Round Table and some friandises for her.

  “What are you thinking about so earnestly? I could see your beetling brows all the way across the room. Have you solved Chat's case? Does Dr. Hubbard have his hand in the till? Although from what I understand about the finances of places like Hubbard House and how difficult it is to keep them going, there can't be much to spare. Farley told me Roland Hubbard has never asked anyone to leave—even when the money ran out."

  “I think that's why we're here tonight. It's kind of a scholarship fundraiser. As to what I have been thinking about, you're right. I'm still looking for the skeleton in the closet.”

  Tom took a last colossal bite of pudding and said, "Let's tread a few measures, then go home. I know Samantha is spending the night and wedon't have to rush, but I'd like to get to bed myself."

  “Me too," Faith answered demurely.

  It was handy—no, more than handy, definitely a gift from the gods—to have a baby-sitter next door, and Faith prayed unabashedly that Samantha's devotion to Ben would continue for years to come. After all, there were lots of excellent colleges in the area. Since tonight was a school night, she was sleeping over. Faith shuddered as she remembered what Lizzie's mother, Arlene, had told her last week—that she had called twelve people and still had not been able to find a sitter. Faith couldn't in good conscience wish zits or perpetual bad breath on Samantha, but she did wish that the fifteen-year-old would continue her pattern of infrequent dating or find someone steady and settle down immediately—preferably in front of the Fairchild fireplace watching Ben.

  Tom and Faith danced their last dance and prepared to take their leave. Tom was exchanging phone numbers with Bill Winter. They had both gone to the same high school on the South Shore, although a few years apart. New England was often like that, Faith had discovered. If it wasn't someone Tom had grown up with, then it was someone from college or a cousin of someone who knew his brother. A village.

  Faith turned and realized that Eddie Russell had slithered up to her side. "Ready for our dance? You promised, remember?" He smiled, and he did have a captivating smile. Tom was still wrapped up replaying the Norwell-Hanover Thanksgiving game of 1976, so she decided to dance with Eddie. Purely for research; the man was such a sleaze.

  “I do remember. I didn't promise, but let's dance anyway.”

  They walked to the dance floor and started to dance. The orchestra provided a plaintive rendition of "Memories" and Eddie went into his dancing mode, closing his eyes slightly and humming tunefully along with the music. He began to pull her closer in gradually increasing increments, and at the same time his hand began to ascend from her silk-covered waist to her bare back. At the first touch of vertebrae, Faith said, "Get your hand off my back, Edsel dear, and don't do it again."

  “Come on, Faith, you didn't wear a dress like this for no reason.”

  Faith stopped dancing and stepped back, still in his arms.

  “Why don't you go do to yourself what you have in mind to do to me?" she told him succinctly.

  It took him a moment to get it, and he flushed angrily. She was walking away by then.

  “Is that any way for a minister's wife to talk?" he called after her.

  “Probably not," she answered, and went to find Tom. Definitely time to go home.

  They said good night to Denise, who had gotten a strong second wind somewhere and slowed her hectic recreation of the twist to beg them to stay. "You can't go yet! The party's just starting and the band is playing all these oldies. I've requested ahustle next. It's such a hoot!" She seemed genuinely excited about the prospect, but the Fairchilds, less enthusiastic, said good night again and threaded their way through the writhing dancers.

  Out on the sidewalk, while they waited for their car to be brought around, they were joined by Donald and Charmaine. Charmaine was leaning on Donald's arm ever so slightly and had a determinedly gallant look on her face. What exactly was it she had survived? Faith wondered. Their car arrived first and Donald tenderly helped her in. "She's very tired," he told them, and drove off quickly.

  Tom and Faith laughed. "After your description of her with the moldly leftovers, I didn't think Charmaine could provide much more amusement, but I should have known better. Women like that are a never-ending source.”

  They got into the car to drive home, first detouring to drive past the lights on Boston Common. Garlands of red, blue, green, and gold were strung in the bare tree branches like jeweled necklaces, gaudy but beautiful trimmings against the sedate brick townhouses lining Beacon Street behind them. A parking space appeared—too good to waste—and Tom and Faith walked up to the state house totally surrounded by the ancient trees and their unaccustomed diadems. They strolled back to the car reluctantly, and as they turned west on Storrow Drive away from the distraction of the lights, Faith realized that Charmaine hadn't been carrying her enormous purse. Nor had Donald.

  She didn't seem the type to forget her essentials. Nor mislay them. It was puzzling.

  The next morning—or actually the same morning—arrived too soon, but they managed to get themselves up and even dressed and fed. Ben was revoltingly cheerful.

  “I must be getting old," Tom said. "I used to get by on a lot less sleep than this and be loaded for bear the following morning."

  “What a curious expression that is," Faith commented. "But it's true—I really feel it the next morning when I've been out late. I blame Benjamin and all the sleep deprivation we suffered when he was a baby. We just haven't caught up. One good thing though: when we're in our eighties, we won't need so much sleep and we can stay out as late as we want."

  “Great. By the way, were you also thinking of waiting until then for Ben the Sequel?" Tom had been subtly and not so subtly hinting for some months that it was sibling time for Ben.

  “You never know." Faith smiled and got into her car. She was not opposed to having another baby. It was just hard to cross that bridge from nice idea to fact. And it wasn't as if they were not trying. They just weren't trying—and all the un-spontaneous counting of days that involved.

  Mrs. Pendergast was already up to the salads when Faith arrived and, contrary to all Faith's expectation, was full of curiosity ab
out the ball. She wanted to know what everyone had been wearing, what they had eaten, what Dr. Hubbard hadsaid in his speech, and so forth. Faith was happy to oblige and was rewarded by an unguarded comment or two from Mrs. P.

  After Faith had described the gowns of Leandra Rhodes and Bootsie Brennan, Mrs. Pendergast chuckled. "Those two! They hate each other like poison. Each thinks the other is purposely working against her. You should have seen the fur fly when Mrs. Rhodes started a fund drive sponsored by the Residents' Council to buy books for the library. Well, according to Mrs. Brennan, that was taking over the job of the Auxiliary. They were the only ones who were supposed to raise money for Hubbard House. Mrs. Rhodes said if so why weren't they doing a better job of stocking the library, and Mrs. Brennan said it was her impression that most residents had their own books, and finally the whole thing ended up in Dr. Hubbard's lap, as usual, and he just put them both in charge of the thing, as usual. So Mrs. Rhodes gets all the residents to donate what they can and Mrs. Brennan goes outside. It's pretty even. Then Mrs. Brennan's son comes up with some huge secret donation and it looked like she'd won. But Mrs. Rhodes turned around and got a secret one herself. Of course everybody figured out soon enough it was their own money.”

  Faith laughed. "It sounds like it must be some library. I'll have to take a closer look."

  “It is, but they raised so much money that in the end they decided to put most of it in the general fund, because you know—though I hate to say it—the people here do have their own books or go over to the town library, and they never really needed so many books in the first place."

  “Why do you hate to say it?" Faith asked.

  Mrs. Pendergast looked over her shoulder and muttered under her breath, "Never cared much for Mrs. Brennan—Bootsie, what kind of name is that for a woman anyway? Even for a cat it's going some. Always wanting to know 'What are we giving them today, Mrs. P.?' She's never scraped a carrot in her life, that one.”

  Faith sympathized. It looked like Cyle and the mater were cut from the same cloth. "What does Mr. Brennan do?" she asked Mrs. Pendergast, although Tom would know.

  “It's what he did. Died and left a rich widow a year after they were married. Right after his son was born.”

  Faith stifled the remark that was called for—something along the lines of "took one look," or "how did he stand it a year?"—and got busy with the bread.

  Mrs. Pendergast had had enough of true confessions. "There's snow in the air. Smelled like it when I went to start my car this morning.”

  Two years ago Faith would have scoffed at the quaintness of this archetypal New England prophecy, but she thought it smelled like snow herself this morning. There was a kind of smell, or lack of smell. The air was dry, odorless, and empty—waiting to be filled with flakes.

  “Anyhow," Mrs. R continued in the same folksy vein, "it's time for some more snow. You knowwhat they say: 'A green Christmas means a full graveyard come spring.' “

  Faith wondered what cheerful soul had first made this observation and decided to ignore the homily in favor of the here and now. "Should we make up some stew and a few soups in case the weather gets bad and the weekend help can't get here?" she asked.

  “I've already done a beef stew and it's in the freezer. If you want to help with some soup, that would be getting it done. But"—she looked over her ridiculous diamanté glasses at Faith—"no bouillon.”

  Five

  It was three o'clock. Ben had awakened from his nap, and Faith was restless. Too early to start dinner, and she didn't feel like doing any of the things she had to do. Like iron. She knew not what worldly goods she might bequeath to her children, yet of one thing she was sure. There would be a basket of ironing sitting in the closet.

  “Want to go see Pix and play with the dogs?" she asked Ben, confident of his response. There was nothing Benjamin liked better than rolling around on the Millers' kitchen floor with their golden retrievers. It wasn't necessary to bundle him up too much for the quick dash across the driveway, and soon she was knocking at Pix's kitchen door.

  “Are you busy? Or would you like some company?" Faith asked.

  “I'd love an excuse to stop. Every time I add these up, I get a different number." She pointed to a pile of papers on the kitchen table. "It's the final tally for the cookie sales. We have to make sure the number of boxes sold equals the number delivered and paid for.”

  Pix was the town coordinator for the Girl Scout cookie drive again, even though Samantha hadn't been a scout for some time. It was one of those jobs that, once having fallen to Pix, stuck. She was active in everything from the preschool PTA to Meals on Wheels. All the organizations in town knew a good thing when they saw it, and she was the original girl who couldn't say no.

  “Don't you ever think of shedding a few of these responsibilities?" Faith wondered.

  “Believe me I try, but they say 'just one more year' and I agree. But this really is the last year for the cookies. Sam was very annoyed at having his precious Porsche outside while the Tagalongs and Trefoils were in the garage.”

  Sam Miller, a Boston lawyer, had purchased the sports car as a defiant gesture toward the depredations of middle age when he had turned forty several years earlier. The other less benign gesture—the prerequisite affair with a younger woman—made at the same time had fortunately not been repeated, nor did it seem likely that it would.

  “Give me your calculator and let me help you with this. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's set tling accounts," Faith offered.

  Pix put a cookie in each of Ben's hands and placed him high up on a stool so the dogs wouldn't eat the cookies before he could, then put a plate of them on the table. She poured two mugs of coffee and they settled down to work. Faith had become used to drinking bottomless mugs of coffee in Aleford's suburban kitchens. Her espresso days were definitely over, she thought with a slight inward sigh.

  The job was soon done.

  “You're a wizard, Faith. It would have taken me hours to do it."

  “It's good practice for February, when I start the business again. My profit depends on calculations like this."

  “I can't wait. I'll never have to cook for another dinner party again." Pix, who had shot the rapids whitewater canoeing coast to coast, regularly skied the bowl at Tuckerman Ravine, and had taught her teenage son to drive, went completely to pieces at the prospect of entertaining in Aleford.

  “I've told you. I'd be happy to get everything ready for you anytime. You don't have to hire me," Faith protested.

  “No, you're a professional. It's your bread and butter, so I'll wait my turn.”

  Ben was opening Pix's cupboards and soon became engrossed in her museum-quality and -quantity Tupperware collection. There was a shape and size for every food yet discovered. Faith knew Pix didn't mind the mess.

  Pix was the only person, apart from Tom and Charley MacIsaac, whom Faith had told about Howard Perkins' letter and Chat's call. Pix had lived in Aleford all her life, but her ear had always been kept to a different kind of ground than Milli-cent's or even the chief's. A camping ground. Still, she might know something about some of the people Faith had met the night before, and she started off by asking about the younger Hubbards.

  “Of course I know Charmaine and Donald. They've lived in town since they got married, which must have been about ten years ago," Pix responded. "But our paths don't cross very often. Besides, Charmaine is away a lot. They don't have any children, so I guess she gets bored around here. She's always off to Florida or on a cruise somewhere."

  “Boring stuff like that," said Faith.

  “Well, boring to me. Muriel was a couple of years behind me in school. I always felt sorry for her. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but she was so serious no one ever dated her much, and she didn't even have many girlfriends, except for a few who were in Future Nurses. I remember her mostly rushing to class with a big stack of books—all by herself."

  “What about someone named Edsel Russell? Ever run into him?"


  “His older brother was in Sam's and my graduating class, but I don't know Eddie. There's a big age difference."

  “You mean Eddie Russell is from Aleford! I should have guessed," Faith exclaimed.

  “He's from Aleford, though he hasn't been here much. He left when he was a teenager. I don't know if he ever finished school. His father, Stanley, ran off when the kids were young, and his mother died about ten years ago, so there was nothing back here for him. His brother, Stanley Junior, is a career Army man. He's at some base in Texas."

  “I wonder why Eddie came back to Aleford," Faith mused.

  “I can't tell you that, but I can tell you how. It was pretty hot gossip at the time—about two years ago. Charmaine met him down in Boca Raton. He was the golf pro or something like that at the resort where she was staying. Hubbard House had an opening, and he must have needed a job."

  “And maybe Charmaine decided he could be of service in other ways?"

  “It has been hinted. She's not known for her devotion to Donald, and a lot of people wonder why he ever puts up with her."

  “Love, my dear, blind infatuation. It sticks out all over him."

  “Last night must have been very interesting then. Tell me, what did Charmaine wear? Anybody who wears a chartreuse body suit and a lace T-shirt to do her marketing in was bound to look pretty spectacular at the ball.”

  Faith filled her in, and they spent some more time talking about the Hubbards and Eddie Russell, in particular, but it was peculation that didn't take them anywhere. Faith stood up. "I've got to go and get supper ready. Let me know ifyou remember anything more about the Hub-bards or Eddie. I have a hunch that whatever Howard found out has to do with Charmaine and Eddie. Maybe they're operating some sort of scam using Hubbard House as a front—kickbacks from the hospital suppliers, that's a possibility, or doctoring the books. From the giant Rolex Eddie was sporting, it's my guess he likes a healthy cash flow."